


A Double Shot of Espresso

by vintagelilacs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-05 15:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: “Could I get a black coffee with a double shot of espresso?"“Mm, no.”John jerked his head up. He wasn’t sure what was more surprising - that the barista’s voice was liquid sex, or that he’d just rejected his order.





	A Double Shot of Espresso

John's eyes flickered to his watch. Quarter to ten. It was no surprise that the coffeeshop was all but deserted. There was hardly a need for caffeine so late in the evening when most sensible people avoided it in the latter half of the day. John knew for a fact that to avoid sleep disruption, it was best not to have any coffee after 2 pm. Though it was hard to be concerned about disrupting his sleep schedule when his nights were already riddled with night terrors and anxiety attacks. A bit of coffee would hardly make a significant impact. 

After briefly perusing the menu, John strode up to the counter. "Hi," he began shortly, "could I get a black coffee with a double shot of espresso?" He adjusted the strap of his shoulder-bag absently. It was absurdly heavy to carry considering the only item in it was his laptop. Though, to be fair, his laptop was a large and clunky piece of machinery that most people wouldn't deign to use. It also took nearly half an hour to boot up, but it was the best he could afford on an army pension.

“Mm, no.”

John jerked his head up. He wasn’t sure what was more surprising - that the barista’s voice was liquid sex, or that he’d just rejected John’s order. He assessed the barista with newfound interest. The man was clad in a bespoke black suit with a crisp white button-down. John personally thought he was a tad overdressed, but he supposed he wasn't really equipped at giving fashion advice considering his own wardrobe largely consisted of ill-fitting jumpers. John dragged his eyes up the man's lithe frame to examine his face. The barista's hair was almost artfully tousled. Either he had ridiculously unfair genetics, or he spent hours styling it. He also had _very_ appealing full lips, but John would probably appreciate them more if they weren't twisted in a haughty moue of disdain. 

“No?” John echoed belatedly, his forehead pleating in confusion. Had he misheard somehow? 

The barista, Sherlock, according to his name tag, muttered under his breath, and John caught “tedious” and “pedestrian.” 

“I’m sorry, can I not have a double shot of espresso? Is the machine broken?”

“It’s not broken,” Sherlock answered easily. 

John glanced behind him to make sure he wasn’t holding up the line, but of course, no one else was there. "Then why--" 

“It’s obvious you want to stay awake to apply for jobs," he interrupted, "and if you’re looking for a source of caffeine, regular black coffee is your best option.”

“Hang on, how did you know…? Are you some sort of psychic?”

Sherlock sent him a withering glare, as if John had just gravely insulted him. “Please. I’m merely capable of observing what regular idiots fail to. I have to say, it’s odd you’re applying for jobs now. It’s clear you’ve been putting it off, but you had all day to peruse the internet for job openings.” 

John was aware his jaw was hanging open, but he couldn't bring himself to care. 

“You don’t seem the type…” Sherlock let his voice trail off. The type to what? John wanted to ask, but Sherlock resumed speaking before he could piece his thoughts into a concise question. “It’s not applying for jobs that you’re avoiding. Something else. From the intermittent tremor in your hand, it’s obviously something that’s giving you a great deal of anxiety.”

John’s gaze darted down to his hand, which, sure enough, was faintly trembling. 

“You weren’t aware of the tremor until I pointed it out, which means you’re used to it. You’ve been dealing with some form of anxiety for a while, at least six months.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes until they were little more than blue slits of ice. “I’d say PTSD, but unlike you, I’m not a doctor so I can’t diagnose you with too much certainty.”

“Diagnose me?” John repeated. “I’m already diagnosed, thank you very much. And how do you know I'm a doctor?”

“Yes, I assumed as much," Sherlock said, completely bypassing John's question. "It’s nightmares you’re avoiding, isn’t it? And you’re aware trimethylxanthine affects your central nervous system? It may keep you awake but it won’t do any good for your nerves.”

By now, John had had quite enough of being lectured at by some self-satisfied prig. He came here for coffee, not to be psychoanalyzed. Squaring his shoulders, he cleared his throat. “I’d like a large coffee with a double shot of espresso.”

Sherlock’s lips pursed. “It’s a common misconception thinking that espresso helps you stay more alert than regular drip coffee. In actuality, the espresso hasn’t had time to permeate so there’s actually less caffeine in espresso coffee than regular. It’ll taste stronger, of course, but it’s proven to be less effective.” 

“Large coffee with a double shot of espresso,” John repeated for the third time. 

“Can’t accept when you’re wrong, how juvenile,” Sherlock muttered. John was practically speechless. This man was arrogance personified. And calling John juvenile, _really_? He wasn't the one arguing with customers over their order!

Sherlock punched in the order with angry jabs of his long, slender fingers. “Anything else?” he drawled. 

“Uh, yeah,” John glanced sidelong at the display of baked goods. “I’ll get a blueberry muffin. Unless there’s something wrong with that too?” 

“I’ll get you a cheese danish.”

“What?” John stared incredulously as ‘cheese danish’ flashed on the screen. “Hang on, that’s not what I ordered.” 

“No,” Sherlock conceded, “but I watched your eyes dart between the danish and the muffin. Ultimately you decided on the muffin, but only because you mistakenly believe it to have less calories.”

“Who says I care about calories?”

“You licked your lips when you looked at the bakery display. Licking your lips seems to be habitual for you, but paired with how you shifted uneasily, you feel you shouldn’t be indulging in high calorie foods. You’ve put on weight. Not a significant amount, otherwise you wouldn’t consider ordering any bakery item, but enough that you’re self conscious. I’d say somewhere between three-to-seven pounds.” 

“Right, ta for that, but I’ll have the muffin.” 

“The blueberry muffin has 360 calories while the cheese danish has 290.”

Dammit. 

“Will that be everything?” Sherlock chirped with faux enthusiasm.

“You’re a prat, you know that?” 

Sherlock blinked. “Was the rhyme intentional?” 

“God!” John threw his hands in the air. He couldn't remember ever meeting someone so infuriating. No one would have dared speak to him in such an insolent tone when he was posted in Afghanistan. He wanted nothing more now than to put this Sherlock bloke in his place. He was clearly used to getting his way, if his self-satisfied attitude was any indication, but an evening with Captain Watson would change that. John's tongue swiped slowly across his lips as he pictured those wide blue-grey eyes peering up at him rather than gazing sharply down. 

Sherlock spun on his heel to fix John's coffee, his movements elegant and almost catlike. _Jesus._ His arse looked obscene in those trousers, pert and nicely rounded. His trousers clung so tightly, John had to wonder if there was even room for pants underneath them. Of course Sherlock would have a spectacular arse in addition to razor sharp cheekbones and plump lips. Why were the arseholes always so attractive? 

"Black coffee and a cheese danish," Sherlock called out, startling him from his thoughts. 

Glaring, John made to claim his order. As Sherlock handed him his coffee, his fingers brushed deliberately across the back of John's hand. The touch lasted too long to be unintentional. John almost dropped his drink. Sherlock had practically stroked him! Was that some sort of attempt at flirtation, or was his endgame to make John flustered? He cleared his throat, willing his expression to remain neutral. No matter Sherlock's intentions, it hadn't worked. 

* * *

Over the next couple weeks, John continued to frequent the coffeeshop. It was probably sad that the most exciting part of his days were his brief (and infuriating) interactions with Sherlock. The barista continued to dictate what John should and shouldn't order, but aside from the constant nagging, conversation between them was surprisingly fluid and natural. Sherlock's sense of humour was very dry, but John actually found himself huffing out a laugh on occasion. John wasn't the only one Sherlock liked to analyze. He'd relay all his interesting observations to John in a low undertone--who was cheating on their spouse, which customers shared John's unfortunate state of unemployment, and even deduced that one customer was involved in an undergound smuggling ring.

When John swaggered up to the counter only to realize Sherlock wasn't behind it, he couldn't hide his pang of disappointment. 

"What can I get cha?" The barista currently helming the cash register was a curvaceous brunette whose name tag was pinned low on her breast. Her lashes were long and heavily clumped with mascara, and they fluttered as she gave him an appreciative once-over. Despite the extra pounds he'd put on, he still retained noticeable muscle mass from his army days. 

"Just a coffee please." Under any other circumstance, John wouldn't hesitate to flirt back, and add an "oh, and your number" to his order. And yet, something held him back now. It felt wrong to flirt with her, like a betrayal on Sherlock's behalf. Which was ludicrous, of course. What did Sherlock care if John made eyes at someone else? 

The barista winked as she handed him his coffee. Their hands brushed, but there was no warm, tingly feeling from the contact. He sipped slowly at his coffee, and it slid down his throat in a bitter burn. Even his drink tasted substandard to how it usually was. 

After settling down at a corner table, John opened his laptop and waited the required half hour for the shoddy machinery to start. His eyes drifted languidly over the other customers, before freezing. Sherlock, mop in hand, was currently cleaning the floors. Or at least, John assumed that's what he was supposed to be doing. Rather than being focused on the task, Sherlock was staring at him. Their eyes met. Was it odd that staring across the room felt intimate? 

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did Sherlock wrench his own gaze away. John continued to watch him scrub angrily at the floor. The only word his mind supplied him with was 'cute.'

* * *

The bell chimed as he pushed open the door the following evening. He inhaled the familiar pungency of freshly ground coffee beans and baked bread fresh out of the oven. 

“If you’re having gastro-intestinal issues, I’d advise not ordering the pastrami sandwich,” Sherlock greeted him from his usual position. The brunette who'd flirted with John the previous evening wasn't present.

One of the overhead light fixtures kept flickering, but the oscillating light cast shadows across Sherlock's face, highlighting his bone structure and angular features. John infused his tone with as much irritation as possible, but it was unfortunately difficult maintaining annoyance at someone so breathtakingly attractive. “How could you possibly know I was planning on ordering that?”

“Simple. Your eyes flickered towards it when you walked in for about 1.5 seconds.”

John’s shoulders caved in defeat. He had him there. “Do you give all your customers such a hard time?”

“Mm, no, I’d really rather not waste brain cells on them.”

“So I should consider myself special?” He wondered. Sherlock sneered, but from the flush of colour spanning across his prominent cheekbones, John wagered he was on to something. “You know, if it was anyone else, they’d probably have tried to get you fired by now.”

“Are you going to?” Sherlock questioned, scrutinizing him with a narrowed stare. He looked genuinely curious, but not at all perturbed by the possibility.

“Haven’t decided yet,” John said with a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, if you do, you might have a hard time.”

He leaned closer. “And why is that?”

Sherlock grinned, a predatory flash of pale teeth. “I don’t actually work here.”

“What? You expect me to believe you just sneak in here everyday and do someone else's job?”

“Something like that.”

"Next you'll tell me your name isn't really 'Sherlock.'"

"It's my middle name, technically, but my first name is horribly average." 

"What is it?" John questioned. Sherlock, of course, refused to answer. "Just as well, I suppose. Not like I'd tell you what the 'H' in my middle name stands for." 

Sherlock sighed. It seemed his sighs were their own sort of language. This one translated roughly to, _enough about names, return your attention to the intriguing fact that I'm not an employee_. 

John crossed his legs. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Oh, I think that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Sherlock’s lips curled mockingly. 

Damn him. John was itching to punch the smirk off his face. Or maybe even snog it off. Whichever one worked better. 

“You like a good mystery, don’t you _John Watson_?" Sherlock's breathing hitched as he spoke, as if the nature of their conversation was something lewd or racy. "I think I’ll let you at least try to figure it out, though you won’t, of course.”

John didn't even think to ask how Sherlock knew his full name. No, he was much too busy imagining Sherlock repeating his name as a breathy gasp or a low moan. 

* * *

John didn't stop by the cafe once within the next three days, which was a new record, and the longest he'd gone without seeing Sherlock.

Friday found him running long overdue errands, and by the time he'd finished, he was in no mood to go out for coffee. If anything, he could use a pint. He debated calling up Stamford, or one of his mates from his rugby days, but ultimately decided on staying in and watching a game of footie on the telly. 

Saturday was similarly busy. After arranging an interview time with one of the clinic's he'd applied to, he picked up a new suit, then ordered takeaway Chinese while he pored over potential interview questions. He resigned to stop by the cafe the following day, forgetting that it was closed Sundays. He'd gotten so used to stopping by everyday, and Sherlock had become as much of an addiction as the actual coffee. He felt restless all night, both because of the upset to his routine, and anxiety over his upcoming interview. 

After being interviewed by a lovely girl named Sarah, John headed straight for the coffeeshop, unable to wait any longer. 

“The interview went well, I see.”

John flinched at the sound of that deep, rumbling tenor. Sherlock’s voice came from behind him, rather than from the front counter. He swiveled. The barista was clad in his usual suit, this time sans name tag. “You’re not at the counter.”

“Impressive observation.” 

“Are you on your break?” John wondered. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His fingers were steepled against his lips, and John couldn't decide if his lips or his hands were more distracting. “Your listening comprehension skills clearly need work. I already told you I don’t work here.” 

“Right, then you’re here as, what, a customer?” John eyed the table Sherlock was seated at. It was conspicuously blank. Unless he’d already finished it, he hadn’t even ordered a drink. 

“Don’t be absurd, I’d never order from a subpar place like this. I’m here because I was waiting for you.”

John's heartrate spiked. He kept his voice neutral, but had to wonder if Sherlock could deduce how fast his heart was beating. “You really shouldn’t have.” 

“Stop being boring, John. I know you’re glad to see me.” 

Right, there was no hiding anything from the human lie detector. “Alright, fine. I’ll admit it is a bit of a self-esteem booster knowing that no matter what issues I have, I’ll never be as obnoxious as you.” 

Sherlock ignored his jab. “You want to know why I’ve been here in uniform for the past three weeks when I’m not an employee. Before I tell you, have you any theories?”

Heaving a sigh, John claimed the chair opposite Sherlock. “I’d wager you’ve been covering a shift for a friend, but somehow I don’t think you have too many of those.”

“None,” Sherlock answered without missing a beat.

“What?”

“I have no friends.” Sherlock didn’t seem at all bothered by this, but the statement made John's chest twinge a little.

“Er, are you a health code inspector undercover?” he asked, not lingering on what should have been a sensitive subject.

“Hmm, getting closer, but no. If I were this place would’ve been shut down already.”

“Fine," he held his hands up. "I surrender.”

“Oh?” Sherlock arched one of his perfectly sculpted brows.

“Are you going to tell me now?”

Sherlock leaned forward, propping his chin in his hands. His voice dropped to a whisper, that low baritone sending shivers down John's spine, and coaxing all the blood in his body southwards. _Shit_. That voice truly belonged narrating porn. “I’m a consulting detective."

John shifted to better hide his lap, listening intently all the while.

"I’ve been working alongside the Met to solve a murder perpetrated by an avid customer of this coffee shop.”

John stalled on one tiny detail. “You work for the met?”

“For them? No. My self-loathing is not strong enough that I’d subject myself to that willingly. They do consult me when they’re out of their depth, which is always.”

“And you really solved a murder?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… incredible.”

“You think so?” A rosy flush tinged Sherlock’s cheeks. It was surprisingly endearing, actually, how easily the man became flustered around John.

“Yes, of course. How long did it take you to solve it?”

“Oh, less than a week,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

“Less than a week?” John parroted. “Then why have you been working here for over three?”

Sherlock worried his luscious lower lip between his teeth. John didn’t need superhuman powers of observation to tell he was nervous. “There was a customer I… fancied.”

John swallowed heavily. “Oh?” he husked.

“And I needed an excuse to continue seeing him.”

_Him._ There was no way he was referring to anyone other than John, right? “And this bloke, do you think he might fancy you?”

“That depends.” Sherlock raised his eyes from the table. “Do you?”

John cracked a tiny smile. “I can’t be sure yet. Not until after I’ve had my morning coffee.”

“My address is 221B Baker Street,” Sherlock blurted.

John blinked several times in quick succession. “Oh. Okay?”

“Come by and I’ll make you a real cup of coffee. And,” he added shyly, “if you’re interested, I can tell you about the details of the murder.”

“Oh, god yes,” he breathed. Forgetting all about the coffeeshop, John dutifully followed Sherlock to his flat. Strictly for the coffee, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> any and all feedback is appreciated<3


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